


Cheap Therapy

by Corvidology



Category: Lucifer (TV), Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Community: intoabar, Crossover, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 11:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14715513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvidology/pseuds/Corvidology
Summary: Written for theInto A Bar challenge.My assignment was:John Reese goes into a bar and meets... Linda Martin (Lucifer)!"Don't call him, you know better."





	Cheap Therapy

She'd been looking forward to the conference for weeks, less for the subject matter and more for the chance to get out of Los Angeles. New York was a breath of fresh air. No angels, no demons, no immortals looking to her to have all the answers. She usually liked to socialize with the other conference attendees, trading anonymized anecdotes and tips on what new approaches seemed to be working, but not this trip. "I have this patient who got his wings back and doesn't know what to do about it" or "there's this jealous demon..." just didn't seem like things she could share without getting committed and probably disbarred. Of course sleeping with a patient would be enough to get her disbarred and "the devil made me do it" didn't seem like much of a defense and wasn't actually the truth anyway. Lucifer hadn't made her do anything. 

She'd pleaded off attending the after-conference dinner with the rest of her colleagues and instead had gone back to her hotel. She'd intended to eat there and get any early night before flying back to Los Angeles, but she liked people, enjoyed being around them, so she asked the concierge to recommend a nearby bar with good food and walked a block over to The Devil's Arms – the universe did like its little jokes – where the concierge assured her they were used to single women because of all the nearby hotels and the bartenders kept an eye out for them. She nodded and smiled and said 'thank you' as her mother had taught her but she was amused at the idea of needing a bartender to keep an eye on her, given the company she'd been keeping. 

She took a seat towards the end of the bar and while she waited for the bartender she fished her phone out of her purse. She had 19 messages, all from Lucifer. She put her phone down on the bar without reading any of them and stared sternly at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Don't call him, you know better."

"What?" 

She turned to look at the man sat on the last stool at the bar who was eyeing her suspiciously. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't think anyone would hear me over the noise."

He was tall and good looking in a way that was just enhanced by the scar that ran from his forehead down across his right cheek. He'd been lucky that whatever did the damage hadn't taken his eye, bisecting his eyebrow as it did. He was dressed in a simple but expensive black suit and a white shirt open at the neck, with a long black overcoat open over it. He was resting his left hand which was in a cast on the bar top and he had a full glass of whisky sitting in front of him, along with his phone. He didn't seem any less suspicious and looked like he was going to get up and move away. 

Her instincts kicked in like they always did. She turned her phone so he could see the list of messages, all with the same sender name. "I was just trying to talk some sense into myself."

His shoulders dropped minutely. Most people would have missed it but the ability to read people was vital to her work. 

"Ditto." He waved his own phone at her but she noticed he made no effort to let her see its screen. "I should be the one to apologize. Let me buy you a drink."

"Well..."

"Please." His slight smile didn't reach his sad eyes.

She'd always been a sucker for a lost puppy. "Thank you. I'd love a dirty martini." 

The man raised one hand and the barman materialized out of nowhere. "A dirty martini for the lady and a beer for me."

She noticed the bartender didn't even look at the full glass of whisky in front of him, just moved off to get their drinks. 

She extended her hand. "Linda Martin." 

He hesitated for a moment but took it briefly. "John Reese. I'm an accountant."

The name was right but he was no more an accountant than she was a flight attendant. "I'm a flight attendant."

He smiled at her, making it clear he didn't believe her stated profession anymore than she believed his. 

His phone started vibrating and he stared down at it before rejecting the call. "I'll be right back." He pocketed the phone, picked up a cane that had been leaning up against the bar and limped off in the direction of the men's room. 

While he was gone, the bartender brought their drinks, setting the beer down beside the whisky. He hesitated for a moment like he wasn't sure if he should say anything or not. "He comes in here every night, orders a full glass of whisky and doesn't touch it. He just sits there, not answering his phone and occasionally buying a beer or a bar snack. There's something strange about him, lady, so watch yourself."

"Thanks, I will." She didn't bother to mention her idea of strange had moved right out of John's league. 

John came back from the men's room and sat back down. 

She shouldn't ask. "What happened to you?"

"...I was in a car accident."

She should let that go as well, even though she knew better, having had these kinds of injuries herself. "I was assaulted several months ago and it took me a long time to recover." She sipped her martini. "I'm still dealing with it mentally."

"It's a dangerous business, being a flight attendant." Now he was smiling. 

"There just weren't enough peanuts to go round." She smiled back. "Accountancy seems like it can be an equally dangerous business."

"You should see the other... car." 

"I can imagine. One of my favorite clie—passengers is ex-special forces. How's your recovery coming along?"

"Too slowly." She didn't think he realized he was rubbing at his scarred eyebrow. "My hand and leg will recover, eventually."

She was on vacation and certainly shouldn't pry. "Aren't you going to drink your whisky?"

"Haven't yet." 

"Then why did you order it?"

"My version of Russian Roulette." He wrapped his hand around the glass and then slid it back on the bar. "I used to have a problem."

It looked to her like he still did, just not with alcohol. Her first instinct was to try to help him but he wasn't on her couch and she wasn't sure he'd appreciate it. 

"Would you have dinner with me?"

And there was that suspicious look again. She didn't know whether to be impressed or sorry for John that it obviously didn't even occur to him that she might just be hitting on him. 

"I'd appreciate it, John. I hate eating alone and we could get one of those comfortable looking booths over there." She rubbed at her leg. His eyes didn't follow her movement. "And my legs would appreciate getting off this barstool. I've been on my feet all day."

"Long flight?" He smiled and stood up, holding out his good hand to help her down from the high stool. 

 

He draped his overcoat over the hook at the end before sliding into the booth. Now she could see how much weight he'd lost during his recovery by how his tailored suit hung on him. 

"I love bar food so I'm planning on ordering a few favorites but I try for all things in moderation." And she'd been failing badly but John didn't need to know that, she just wanted to put some meat on his bones. "I hope you're hungry and willing to help me out."

He handed her one of the menus propped up behind the condiments and nodded his approval when she picked out buffalo wings, fried pickles, blue cheese sliders and fried mozzarella sticks and then doubled her order. This time, they both got a beer. 

He wasn't very talkative but she was used to having to carry the conversation until a client felt comfortable enough to open up, Lucifer being the exception that proved the rule. 

A couple at a nearby table started yelling and as people turned to stare at them the man threw some money down on the table and they quickly left. 

John looked like he wanted to go after them. 

"Don't worry, John. The only place they're going is home to have blazing hot make-up sex." 

"How do you know that?"

"His hand was on her butt and she didn't stop moving to remove it at the wrist."

John's laugh was rusty, like he hadn't laughed in a long time and had almost forgotten how.

"Some of the most unlikely matches go the distance, John."

"If I had— if they have enough sense to realize they're a match before it's too late." He stuffed a mozzarella stick into his mouth and chewed slowly, obviously regretting what he'd just let slip.

"In my professional experience, it's almost never too late if you've got the guts to tell them."

She appreciated his half-hearted attempt at a smile. "Flight attendants have a larger skill set than I realized."

"You'd be surprised at the skills you need when you're trapped with 400 people at 40,000 feet."

He rubbed at his bisected eyebrow again. "It's too late. By the time I realized how I felt, he'd found his happy ending." 

John glanced down at his phone as it started playing "Who Let the Dogs Out?" 

"Sorry, I have to take this." He grabbed his cane and slid out of the booth. "Shaw? ...What's wrong with Bear? ...You need me to dog sit?" He walked back towards the hallway where the rest rooms were and where it was probably a little quieter. 

She sipped her drink, watching people at the other tables, imagining their stories. Moving slowly through them, heading towards the bar and obviously looking for someone, was an unremarkable middle-aged man with a Tintin hair cut wearing a truly remarkable bespoke dark purple suit. Whoever he was, he had money. His suit made Lucifer's look like he shopped at Walmart.

Suitman stopped near her booth, scanning the bar. "I don't even know who I'm looking for."

"Excuse me?"

He turned to look at her. "I beg your pardon. I didn't realize I'd spoken loud enough to be heard." 

"Maybe I can help. I've been sitting here for a while now."

Suitman moved in closer, staring down at her from John's side of the booth. "Thank you, but it was a blind date, I'm afraid. They were supposed to be carrying a copy of The Great Gatsby. They must have decided to stand me up, can't really blame them."

Another lie. Sometimes it sucked to be a human polygraph. But Suitman had the same sad eyes that John did and she would have been tempted to ask him to join them if John wasn't already so skittish. "I'm sure she'll regret it."

Suitman's smile vanished as he took a very deep breath in. He grabbed hold of the back of John's overcoat where it was hanging on the hook and buried his face in it. "No, it can't be."

What was the polite way to ask a stranger to stop sniffing the coat of another stranger you were having dinner with? "My friend will be back in just a moment."

And then John limped around the corner, slipping his phone into his coat pocket.

"John!" Suitman embraced John tightly, raising one hand to caress his face.

John flinched away from his touch, stepping back and easing his way back into his side of the booth, putting both his hands firmly on top of the table. 

It didn't take a therapist to realize John was making sure he wasn't in a position to touch Suitman back. 

Suitman was pink up to his ears. "I'm so sorry, Ms.—"

"Linda."

"Linda, for interrupting your... date." Now Suitman looked crushed. "Goodbye, John. I cannot begin to tell you how good it is to know— to see you looking so well."

Apparently it did take a therapist to realize. She was about to ask Suitman to join them but John beat her to it.

"Sit down, Finch."

Finch hesitated for a moment before starting to sit by John. 

"No, over there, if Linda doesn't mind."

She didn't mind. She slid over further so Finch could sit beside her and he did, staring at John like he might disappear if he blinked.

"What are you doing here, Finch?"

"I didn't know you were... here, else I'd have been looking for you a lot sooner. Our mutual friend told me to come here."

It was obvious to her that John didn't believe him and Finch began to look desperate. Super-Therapist to the rescue, again. 

"He really didn't know, John. I could tell by the intensity with which he sniffed your coat."

"My coat?" John leaned in a little closer to his own overcoat and breathed in. "The Clive Christian cologne you gave me."

"...And gun oil and a touch of wet dog."

They smiled at each other. At that moment, she was pretty sure they'd forgotten she was even in the booth.

"You should have told me you were ali— recovering and were still in the city, John."

John's smile vanished. "You went to Italy to be with her, Harold. I wasn't going to drag you back." 

So Harold was the 'missed match' John had talked about.

"I went to tell her the truth. I felt I owed it to her, but... feelings change. I spent six months travelling around in Europe but I was homesick. I've only been back a couple of weeks."

An awkward silence fell on the booth, now illuminated by a wall sconce and two blazing torches.

 _Men_. She didn't even need to be a therapist to fix this. "Would you mind letting me out, Harold?" 

He stood up immediately so she could slide out of the booth. She stood there for a moment watching them work very hard at looking at her instead of at each other.

She pointed at Harold. "John only realized how he felt about you after you'd already left for Italy." 

She pointed at John. "Harold went and said goodbye to his past love because he was carrying a torch for you." 

"Am I right?"

She got a murmured 'yes' from both of them before Harold reached out to take John's good hand. 

"I usually charge more for therapy—" John grinned at her "—but I'll settle for you picking up the check, John."

"Thanks, Linda." 

"Goodbye and good luck. And for fucks sake, use your words."

As she left the bar she turned to look back and saw Harold had moved over to sit by John and they were kissing passionately. She almost walked into a table. 

She'd be flying back to Los Angeles where things were a lot more complicated and nobody listened to her but at least she was leaving New York with a win under her belt.


End file.
